


The Man Who Came Out Only When he Wasn’t a Turtle

by counterheist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Parody, Romano in a dress for no good reason, Turtles, cracktastic, dat ass, foxiness, fractured folktale, with nation names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on an Italian folktale. When Romano gets married to Spain, the man who only comes out at night, he learns Spain’s deep dark secret and has to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man Who Came Out Only When he Wasn’t a Turtle

**Author's Note:**

> This will make more sense [if you’ve read this first](http://www.ruanyifeng.com/calvino/2006/10/the_man_who_came_out_only_at_night_en.html). It’s the English translation of a folktale retelling, which probably makes _this_ story so far removed from any original telling that it isn’t even funny. Except it _is_ funny. ( _I hope_.)

Once upon a time, a poor old man lived with his three marriageable daughters in a fisherman’s shack. The poor old man wasn’t very poor, though, by the standards of the town, because secretly he was a famous artist who had thought the shack was charming and conveniently located on top of a reserve of the land’s best sculpting marble. Also he could go outside and get fish whenever he wanted, which was a large plus to the not-actually-poor famous artist. A real man liked his fish fresh.

Additionally, the not-actually-poor famous artist was not old at all. Or.

He wasn’t _that_ old.

He definitely wasn’t the oldest in the town.

He had aged well.

In his own words, he was, “still foxy, my daughters! You will be glad your foxy father passed all his foxy genes on to you when _you too_ are a foxy thirty-nine!”

His youngest daughter stopped sweeping by the fire. His youngest daughter was always cleaning, so this was a bit of a big deal. “Ve, father,” the not-actually-poor, still-foxy famous artist’s youngest daughter said, “I thought you were thirty-nine when I was ten. Ve.”

“He was thirty-nine when I was ten, as well.”

“Yeah well when _I_ was ten he was already fifty-seven and lying about it, so why the fuck are we listening to him anyway?”

The not-actually-poor, still-foxy famous artist sighed at his two older marriageable daughters. The eldest daughter, who had spoken from the garden, liked to sleep all day. He also liked to throw rocks at their neighbor’s window, and remind his father that he wasn’t really a daughter. His name was Greece, and he was precious like that. “Greece! Don’t talk to your poor father like that.”

Greece shrugged, and adjusted his dress in silence. He would talk to his father however he liked because he was the one who really did all the fishing.

“And you!” The not-actually-poor, still-foxy famous artist whirled on his middle daughter with a frown. “No swearing at your father until you’re married!” The middle daughter, who had spoken from his bed, also liked to sleep all day. He also liked to throw fits when anyone called him a daughter, but he still wore the dresses because they were free. Also because they matched his coloring nicely. His name was Romano, and he hated being the middle child.

“Ve…”

The rest of the household stopped to listen. Everyone stopped to listen when the youngest daughter spoke ( _which was why the youngest daughter wasn’t allowed near busy streets anymore_ ). The youngest daughter liked to clean, cook, and paint. The youngest daughter’s name was Veneziano, and no one was really sure whether he was a he or if she was a she. Considering the not-actually-poor, still-foxy famous artist’s track record, the youngest daughter was probably a boy like the other sisters were. As no one actually knew, they tended not to use pronouns around her—him— Veneziano, because it hurt their heads.

“Ve, but that’s how Romano shows he cares! Ve!”

The not-actually-poor, still-foxy famous artist giggled. His youngest daughter was more adorable than words. His oldest daughter was more adorable than pictures, and his middle daughter was more adorable than aqueducts, and that was quite an accomplishment. The not-actually-poor, still-foxy famous artist lived in a small shack full of adorableness, and his life was content.

This content lasted until the night a curious knock came upon the door. “Rome?” a man’s voice called, for indeed the not-actually-poor, still-foxy famous artist’s name was Rome. “Are you awake? I have a question.”

A few seconds passed.

“A question other than that question, I mean!”

Rome tumbled out of bed, opened the door, and listened to the questioner’s plea. They argued until an hour before dawn, and by the time the sun had risen, a heavy weight hung upon Rome’s heart. He was going to have to let one of his adorable daughters go.

“My dearest eldest daughter,” he shouted. Greece pulled a pillow over his head and grunted. Rome was not daunted. “My dearest eldest daughter, you know that strange man who only comes out at night?”

“Stop calling me that,” Greece mumbled, “and don’t tell me you’ve been bothering the prostitutes again. If you get taken to jail, again… we’re just going to leave you there this time.”

How precious. “Your foxy Papa hasn’t been annoying the ladies and gentlemen down by the docks! Besides, they love him.” He had even sculpted a few of the finer beauties. “The strange man we’re all wary of wants to marry one of my daughters! Will you say yes?”

The strange man who only came out at night was pretty hot, even though he was strange. And if Greece had to live one more year next to their obnoxious neighbors he would do more than throw rocks. “Yeah.” Besides, the strange man had amazing arms.

“No!”

“No?”

Rome sighed. He sighed quite often. “You don’t need to pretend to be brave, my dearest eldest daughter! ( _Father, stop that…_ ) I know how you really feel, and I won’t put this burden on your shoulders!” Rome clutched at his foxy throat, and shed a foxy tear, before moving on to the next bed. No one was in it, but that was because Veneziano always got up early to do the chores. It was a habit left over from when they had lived in an enormous mansion. No one had told Veneziano to stop, after they had moved to the shack, and so Veneziano hadn’t.

“Veneziano!”

“Ve?” Veneziano stopped scrubbing underneath Rome’s bed.

While Veneziano was distracted, Rome ran to collect some of the more sensitive art he kept under there. Veneziano was too innocent for the paintings of the xxxxx and the xxxxxxxxxxxxx. “Would you like to marry the strange man who only comes out at night?

“Ve?”

It was really too horrible for words, so Rome sighed again instead. “He has asked for the hand of one of my daughters! I made sure that he wanted the rest of one of you, as well, but only if you agree to the marriage!”

Veneziano sat down, and began to scrub at the floor. “Ve, I’ll marry him. He’s nice.”

“Mmm, and almost as foxy as me. But you don’t have to be brave, my darling!” Rome had such brave daughters. He didn’t know what to do with them sometimes. And Veneziano was the absolute bravest. Rome couldn’t lose Veneziano to some terrible almost-stranger with a nice ass. “I can tell you don’t really want to marry him. Don’t worry, my lovely daughter!”

He moved on.

Rome’s final daughter, Romano, was asleep in the very last bed. Rome jumped onto his bed in order to wake him, because daughters loved that kind of thing, didn’t they?

“What the fuck, old man?!”

Yes, daughters loved to be lovingly woken by their foxy fathers. “My adorable middle child!” Whilst his daughter spluttered, Rome continued. “Do you remember the strange man who only comes out at night? He wants to marry one of my daughters and your sisters have all said no.”

Romano didn’t remember much about the man who only came out at night; only that he had a nice ass. “I don’t remember his face. And what does this have to do with me?”

“Now, even though you’re the only one left,” Rome frowned, “I won’t make you marry him if you don’t want to. All you have to do is say no, and your foxy papa will pay him to go awa—”

“No!” Romano sprung out of bed. “What the ever-loving fuck, you senile fool? Why the hell would I ever want to marry some freak I don’t even know?! And he only comes out at night! The fuck is up with that?!”

Rome sighed again, this time at his good fortune. To his luck, his very last ( _albeit middle_ ) daughter had agreed to marry the man who only came out at night! “Your foxy papa knows what you mean! Oh, my middle daughter! Papa is so proud that you’ve agreed to marry some freak you don’t even know! The wedding is tonight. Wear your prettiest dress.”

“Like I wouldn’t wear my best dress to my own wedding—hey!” Something, it appeared, had been lost in translation between the generations. “What the hell? I said _no_!”

“And that was your shy way of hiding your maidenly interest!” Rome blushed, “I’ve read the books too, my daughter; how else do you think I accepted your mother’s proposal?”

“What?”

Later that night, clad in his prettiest dress, Romano married the man who only came out at night, whose name was actually Spain. Romano learned this right before the ceremony, and only because the officiant felt that the alternative was awkward. As though that were the only awkward part of the wedding ( _Rome’s sobbing took that cake across the sea and back again_ ).

“Romano, do you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“…Spain, do you?”

“Yes!”

“You’re done then. All of you. Leave.”

All of the happy guests left hastily, because Rome had promised an enormous party on the beach to send off his happy newly-married middle daughter and his happy freak of a husband. Rome’s parties were, in everyone’s words, bitchin’. They also involved enough booze to sink a fleet of ships.

After everyone else had migrated towards the banquet tables, Spain pulled his new wife to the side. “My dearest wife—”

“It’s ‘husband’ if you want to keep your dick.”

“My dearest husband,” Spain grabbed Romano’s lace-covered hands and held them between his own. “I have a secret that I have to tell you. It’s very important.”

Romano didn’t pull his hands away because he didn’t want to danger wrinkling his silk. That was the only reason. Obviously. “More important than my wedding cake? If I don’t get over there my stupid family’s going to eat it all and it’s fucking _mine_.”

“I’ll make you all the cakes ever.”

“I’m listening.”

Spain let go of Romano’s hands, gently, proving that, at the very least, he wasn’t a complete idiot. And his face wasn’t half-bad either. “I don’t know how to say this…”

_Urgh._

There was nothing Romano disliked more than idiots who couldn’t speak their own goddamned mind. And bastards who thought it was okay to wear floral prints this season… _what were they thinking?_ “Just say it.”

“I…” Spain backed away, before circling around Romano in a complicated hop-step that looked as though he had been practicing it. He might have. He had to do something while he was waiting for the sun to go down. “I’m…”

“Why are you breathing down my neck, fuck it all,” Romano felt tears wetting his carefully rouged ( _shut up it fucking enhanced the natural fucking color of his fucking skin_ ) cheeks, “stop being such a creep. I will **not** be married to a creep!”

“A creep? I’m not a creep.” Spain took a step forward, pressed his body all along the length of Romano’s back, and whispered into Romano’s ear. “What’s a creep?”

Romano didn’t answer. He was thankful his father had insisted that his best dress be incredibly poofy, although Romano still didn’t know why Rome had winked when he’d said it. Whatever. All that mattered was that the guests didn’t get to see his awkward boner. Those sorts of things were reserved for the bedroom, one of which Romano hoped Spain had. He’d never seen where Spain lived; for all Romano knew, Spain didn’t even have _matching sheets_.

Of all things.

“Are you okay? Your face looks strained.”

 _Think about unsexy things. Think about the hair Papa leaves in the drain. Think about the rotting fish Greece likes to leave on Turkey’s doorstep._ “Stop with the whispering!” Romano carefully placed his lacy fingers over his general crotch area. For no reason. Really. “And don’t stand so close to me. You’ll give people the wrong idea.”

“But we just got married.”

Damn.

“And I have to tell you my secret, Romano.” Spain bit his lip, the fucker. “Only you.”

Romano sighed ( _it was inherited, all right?_ ), and imagined that the stains would be a bitch to get out of the silk, but if he played his cards right he could still get Veneziano to do all his washing anyway. “Tell me. And… putyourhandsonmywaistandcontinuetodothatthingwithyourvoice.”

Spain didn’t catch that, quite. He soldiered on. “…Romano, my beautiful husband…I _have a secret_. It is a horrible secret, the most secret of secrets, so secret no one in the whole town knows about it at all. You see, I only come out at night for a reason.”

Moderately annoyed that his demands had not been met, Romano wrapped Spain’s arms around his waist himself, and hoped their adopted children would all inherit Romano’s good sense. “You’re a prostitute? That’s fine with me as long as you don’t touch any of those hussies now that you’re married.” Romano had standards, and bitch-slapping some hussies was not beyond the realm of them.

“I’m cursed.”

Well shit. That was worse.

“You see,” Spain leaned closer, and whispered, lighter than a rainbow and twice as flamboyant, “I’m secretly a turtle.”

Someone, it seemed, had taken a battleship’s worth of wine for himself already. “No seriously, what’s your secret? Now that we’re married I need to know if there’s anything wrong with you besides the obvious.” The obvious being nothing, really, but Romano couldn’t let Spain know that. It might go to his head.

“I’m a turtle while the sun shines. That’s my secret, and why I can never go outside during the day. I did, once, when I was little, and my neighbor tried to eat me.” Spain’s parents had sworn afterwards, once they’d moved, that they hadn’t thought living next to a family of hawks was a bad idea. “But there’s a cure!”

“Great. Do it,” Romano said, his maidenly stuffiness vanishing in the way of newly-wedded anticipation, “and then so can we.”

Spain blinked. “I have to leave my wi—husband right after the wedding while I travel the world. By myself. For a year.”

“Oh _fuck_ no.” Romano knew where this was going. “You are _not_ marrying me to be your little home-keeper while you prance around the fucking world on a holiday! I don’t care if you _are_ a turtle, you are not doing this to me!”

Needless to say, but included anyway, Romano’s dress was no longer in danger of being torn from his body in a lusty passion. It might have gotten ripped if Romano had decided that beating the shit out of Spain was the best response to being told to wait around for him at home, not getting any. But Romano was far too busy trying to ensure that his mascara didn’t run.

“I won’t be prancing! I’ll mostly be walking, as a turtle, and swimming, also as a turtle because swimming at night isn’t very smart, and sleeping.” Two stupid hands brushed against Romano’s face, definitely smearing his makeup and pulling at his heartstrings all in one go. “And missing you.”

Dammit if the fucker wasn’t smooth.

“When I get back, if I find out that you’ve been loyal to me the whole time I was away, I get to stay a man, just like this, until I die!”

Romano had thought that married life was about fucking. He distinctly remembered his father’s descriptions of married life, and they had included almost nothing but fucking ( _to the trio of sisters’ horror_ ). This version of married life, in comparison, really sucked balls. Then again, Spain was pretty hot when he was a man.

“Yeah sure.”

Spain grinned, and tapped the hugeass diamond ring on Romano’s finger. The ring had been one of the main reasons Romano hadn’t made much of a fuss when his father had dragged him, screaming, to the chapel. It was really shiny, okay? “This ring is magic too! As long as you’re doing good things, it, and everyone else, will do whatever you want and make your life much easier.”

The sparkling gem sparkled. Everyone would do what Romano wanted them to…? Romano found himself mesmerized. Maybe this marriage thing wouldn’t be such a bad deal after all. “Is this how you get people to sell you stuff at night? How do you do your shopping, anyway?”

In the distance, the sky lightened. Spain’s face took on a different light as well. “The lettuce stand stays open all the time. And the overripe fruits vendor almost only sells his wares at night.”

Oh.

He wasn’t kidding about being a turtle.

Romano hoped Spain’s mouth didn’t taste turtle-y. He had mints tucked away in his garter belt, sure, but there were about thirty yards of lace between Romano’s hands and those, and if he wanted to get in some quality tongue action before Spain had to leave ( _immediately after the wedding had been hours earlier…_ ), he couldn’t wait that long.

“If I come back to find that you haven’t been faithful,” Spain’s voice became somber, “We’ll still be married. And I’ll be a turtle no matter what. _And I will require caretaking._ ”

Romano didn’t want to know. He really, really didn’t want to know, although he suspected that the caretaking had a lot to do with lettuce and mushy bananas. If it went anywhere conjugal beyond patting Spain’s shell once every Thursday, Romano knew that all the matching sheets in the world wouldn’t save his broken heart. Or his traumatized mind. “O-O-Okay, whatever, I don’t even know why you’d tell me something like that because obviously I’m going to be the most fucking faithful husband ever. Ever, dammit!”

“Great! Now let’s get as far as we can while the guests are distracted and it’s still dark, because when the sun comes up I’ll turn into a turtle and have to start walking on my arduous journey.” Spain unbuttoned his trousers. “Actually, if you could give me a ride to the town’s outskirts, once I’m a turtle, that would be pretty great too.”

So demanding. If Spain weren’t shucking off his pants at the speed of fast, Romano might think that Spain was using his marital privileges for free rides. And not the fun kind either. But Romano didn’t have time to worry about that, because behind him he could see the faint glow of dawn on the horizon. “Shit, help me pull this dress up, you bastard, and don’t crinkle it!”

Spain did as he was told, and Romano knew, as he hurriedly plunged his right hand down Spain’s pants, that this was love. True love.

A few hours after dawn, after Romano had carried his husband to the other side of town and had made him promise not to get hit by a horse or eaten by a hawk or anything, and after Romano had kissed him goodbye ( _after giving him the tiniest sliver of a mint_ ), Romano slumped to the floor of his new home. Spain’s house had matching sheets. It also had matching curtains and a design scheme that complemented both the space and the outside views. Romano was impressed and a little turned-on. But Spain was already gone, and also a turtle, so Romano would just have to wait.

Dammit.

The first thing he did, after borrowing some of Spain’s pants ( _but keeping his own blouse_ ), was look for something to do. He walked into the nearby city, for the first time as a married man, and didn’t whistle at _any_ of the pretty girls he saw on his way. It was difficult not to, but then Romano remembered what Spain looked like when he was naked, and resolved to do anything he could to help Spain break the curse. Plus, Spain was nice and shit, and, well, Romano did have a heart deep down. Spain clearly didn’t want to be a turtle forever, despite the fact that he only seemed to stock his house with turtle-ish foods. And he was Romano’s husband. Romano would do a lot for his husband. He was that kind of guy.

Along his walk, Romano noticed a mother and her sobbing brat. Urgh. Romano knew _his_ adopted children wouldn’t be such nuisances. And they’d look much better when they cried; the crying kid’s face was all red and snotty and unattractive. “Hey. Lady.”

The mother turned. “I’m not a woman.”

“Maaaamaaaaaaaaa,” the brat wailed, “Maaaaaaamaaaaaa Fiiiiinnnnnllaaaaanndddddd IIIIIII hhhaaaavveee aaaaaaaa sssppplllllllllliiiiiiiiinnnnnttteerrrrrrrrrrrr!”

Mama Finland’s eyebrows twitched. “I’m not your Mama, Sealand, I’m just your neighbor. Were you playing in your Papa’s woodshop again? You know he tells you to keep out of there because it isn’t safe.”

Sealand sniffled, and Romano was so done with this shit. “Hey, give me the kid.”

Nobody paid him any attention, because when Mama Finland was giving out a life lesson, whether it was how to tie a proper bandage, or whether it was how to jump off a roof and into a snow bank in such a way that wouldn’t break your legs, people listened.

“By the power of the diamond,” Romano whispered, “make the brat stop whining. And then make the two of them listen to me when I’m fucking asking them to.”

At once, the sliver flew from Sealand’s finger. He stopped crying, and instead flung himself at Romano, in gratitude. Mama Finland turned in gratitude as well, because he didn’t like it when Sealand was unhappy. He was a nice guy like that. “I don’t know what you just did, but thank you.”

Romano smirked and continued walking.

Soon he smelled freshly-baking bread. On the corner of the street stood a bakery, and Romano’s stomach began to rumble once he saw the loaves in the window. Sure, he didn’t have any money, but he was very charming, right? He saw a pretty lady in the window of the shop and decided to ~~scam~~ roguishly beg some lunch off of her.

It soon became apparent that the pretty lady was both the owner of the bakery, and extremely scary. “You will work for your bread,” she said, as she slammed an entirely unnecessary meat cleaver into a block of wood, “or Brother will remove your body from the premises.” She glanced towards the back room reverently, and wiped her dainty hands against her flour-stained apron. Her pale hair was pulled back with a satin ribbon, and if Romano weren’t terrified out of his mind, he would have asked where she bought it because it was divine.

As it was, he settled with a shaky, “by the power of the diamond nobody’s gonna try to kill me if I work here and also I’ll get an employee discount.”

“What was that?”

Romano pulled the frilly apron she offered him over his blouse, and tried to think on the bright side. If he died, at least he wouldn’t be dying a virgin. “Yes miss, of course miss, I’ll just be over here making bread that everyone in the town wants to buy while I’m over here making it and not dead!” The owner returned to her work, silently, and Romano whispered, “what a bitch,” when he was certain that she wouldn’t hear.

Sure as the power of the magic diamond ring, when lunchtime arrived, the shop was packed with people trying to buy Romano’s bread. It was the most popular bread in town, and the crowd waiting for entrance to the bakery soon became so large that it blocked the entire street. Of course, Romano regretted the wish he had made as soon as the first few customers had run up to his counter, because baking this much bread was harder work than he’d thought. He had flour in his hair, his arms ached, and he’d burned one of his fingers on the edge of the oven. And he _still_ didn’t know where the scary owner of the bakery had gotten her hair ribbon.

“Just shut the fuck up, all of you, and wait your turn!”

The crowd quieted, and remained quiet for most of the day. Unbeknownst to Romano, though, three of the men who had initially entered the shop for some of Romano’s delicious ( _and only slightly burnt_ ) bread saw him, and immediately fell in love with him.

“So how much?” said one of the men, leaning against the counter.

“I am incredibly sorry for my brother,” said the next man, blushing, “but I also think you’re very beautiful a-and perhaps you will join me at eight o’clock sharp tonight for dinner and afterwards for sexual intercourse!”

“And I’ll give you three thousand, baby,” said the last man, winking.

Before Romano had a chance to beat the shit out of any of the presumptuous bastards, the owner chased them all away with one of her long chopping knives. But Romano had an idea. His husband was travelling the world, attempting to get rid of his curse, and while that was all well and good, that also meant Romano had to fend for himself. And that sucked.

So, clever plan in mind, Romano waved the third man back to his counter, and made whispered plans with him before the bakery owner grabbed the third man by his scraggly beard and dragged him away. Later that night, Romano met the third man at the door to the bakery.

“My name is France,” the third man purred, “and I’m going to make sweet, sweet love to you all night long.”

“Pay up first.”

And France did.

After stashing the bills in a secret pocket in his blouse, Romano let France into the shop. “I have something to do in the back room first. Just knead some dough while you’re waiting for me.”

France winked, and began to knead. He kneaded and kneaded and kneaded. “Take _all_ the time you need to slip into something significantly less substantial, but not necessarily more comfortable,” he said, and Romano felt the strong need to take a shower. Instead he crept into the bakery’s back room, and huddled next to the door for six or seven hours, until he could no longer stand it.

By the power of the diamond France spent the entire night kneading, and when Romano returned to the front of the bakery he saw it covered in dough. “You done yet?” he asked, “because the owner is going to be here soon, and she likes, uh, chopping people up for breakfast.”

And then he sent France packing.

That afternoon, Romano made the same whispered promises to the man who had leaned against the counter and asked, “how much?” Of course, this time Romano asked for eight thousand. He wasn’t _cheap_.

That night, when the man returned, he introduced himself. “My name is Prussia and I’m the most awesome man who’ll bang you ever. And I’m not lonely, and I never cry in the dark, alone, sometimes, or anything.”

Romano nodded, because of course he didn’t do any of those things either. “Cash first,” he said, adjusting his skirt nervously. He had wondered for a minute or two if using the diamond to extort men for their money still counted as being faithful, but if they were stupid enough to fall for it, it was their own damn fault. Also he was using his earnings to build up his and Spain’s savings, so, really he was being a pretty great husband and Spain had nothing to complain about.

Prussia paid up.

“Do you want to come into the bakery?” Romano asked, while counting the money. “Wait…”

Prussia began to sweat.

“This is seven thousand. I distinctly remember asking for _eight_ thousand, you fucker, don’t think you can shortchange me!” Romano slipped the rest of his bills inside his pocket for safekeeping and attempted to beat the shit out of Prussia.

While running for his life, Prussia explained. “I’m a little short on cash right now, andsoIstoleallthatfrommybrother’swallet, but I can make it up to you! Our family owns an orchard full of overripe fruit. That’s got to be worth _something_!” He covered his head and anticipated the worst.

The worst did not come, because Romano remembered all the mushy bananas and apples Spain had in their pantry at home. Despite himself, Romano blushed. It wouldn’t be so bad if he got paid in a bunch of trees. I-it wasn’t like he was doing this for Spain or anything! “I’ll take the orchard, and if you try to take it away from me, by the power of the diamond,” Romano prepared to curse the fuck out of the scrawny, pale bastard, but remembered just in time that the diamond only worked when he was trying to do arguably sort of good stuff and shit, “by the power of the diamond, let you get exactly what you deserve!”

Prussia became even paler.

And Romano sent him packing.

The next afternoon, at the very end of the day, Prussia’s brother returned to the bakery while Romano was finishing his work. He stepped up to the counter, cleared his throat, and tried to apologize. Before he could, Romano asked his name.

“My name is Germany,” Prussia’s brother barked. “My brother made you promises yesterday, but those promises were not his to make, and… and… sir?”

Romano fluttered his eyelashes and inwardly wished he could beat the shit out of this muscly punk. His muscles even had muscles, and who was _like_ that? Romano shuddered. “Do you think I’m handsome, you fu— Germany?” He twirled a lock of his hair around his finger.

Germany coughed. His face matched the mysterious red splotches that decorated the edges of the bakery owner’s apron. “I—you—it seems—you are—I—ah— …yes. You are pretty!”

He said it like a command.

Romano really missed his husband, at this point, because the other men of the town, and the city, were total assholes in comparison. And their asses weren’t half as nice. “Then buy me a lettuce field and meet me in front of the bakery an hour after dark, tonight.” Romano winked. “I’ll… make it worth your while.”

Later that night, an hour after dark, Romano could hear Germany’s heavy footsteps rushing through the empty streets. He held an official sort of paper in his hands, and a desperate look on his face. “I have done what you requested. Can we. Shall we. We shall now go to coffee and discuss each other’s likes and dislikes?” He attempted to hide a stubby little book in his coat pocket, but Romano didn’t care.

Nobody could say he was a bad husband now: instead of asking for loads of cash off the stupid bastard, he’d asked for a field of _lettuce_. Married life was really getting to him. Pretty soon Romano would be nesting and shit, and knitting incredibly fashionable dresses for all the brats he and Spain would adopt after Spain turned hot again.

“Give it here, and shut the door to the bakery for me. I’ll be back later.” And with that, Romano took the deed and left for home.

The next morning he arrived at the bakery to tell the scary owner that he was quitting. He’d had enough of all this working crap, and lettuce was starting to grow on him. As long as he borrowed fish and laundry services from his sisters, he was set. Now he just needed to wait for his husband to get back, and not accidentally be unfaithful or hit on pretty ladies in the meantime. Hitting on pretty ladies wasn’t infidelity, really, but he didn’t know if the ring or the curse shared his sentiments.

“Why _hello_ there, mis—sssshit. I mean.” He quickened his stride, and shouted over his shoulder at the flustered woman, “you’re nothing special!”

Shit. This was difficult.

At the bakery a crowd had already gathered, and Romano smirked to himself. Oh yeah. Those bitches loved his bread. They ate it up, and then they asked for more. “Let me through already!” he shouted.

“There he is!”

“I agree! That is the tease!”

Tease? Romano was _not_ a fucking tease. Romano was _classy_. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! It was my sister! My sister did it all!”

While Romano was deciding whether to blame Greece or Veneziano for whatever it was, a police officer tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, dude, so these two guys say it’s your fault that this third guy can’t stop shutting the bakery door.”

So maybe Romano had forgotten about that. “It’s not.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s good enough for me,” the officer said, “and by the way: that dress totally does _not_ make you look fat.” He tipped his hat and walked back through the crowd to where three lady officers were arguing with the bakery owner.

The three were wearing their standard issue really tight pants, and Romano was a really faithful husband, he was great, he was, “by the power of the diamond, let those women get in a mud wrestling fight right now.” He felt his heart twinge. “But only for a couple minutes.”

Damn, he was whipped.

“Oh, and let that stupid fucker stop closing that dumb door, and send him packing.”

And the diamond did.

Right at that point, through the dense and incredibly confused crowd, a happy little turtle came crawling. It looked especially stupid, so Romano knew it was Spain, home from his trip around the world, which had taken substantially less than a year to complete! Not that Romano was complaining. Romano scooped up Spain’s turtle-y body and held him close. He had missed his stupid fuck of a husband.

Spain saw his wi—husband, and just like magic he was a sexy young manbeast again! He miraculously had clothes, too, but Romano wasn’t complaining much because the crowd didn’t _deserve_ to see Spain’s nakedness. That was Romano’s marital right, and Romano’s right alone.

“Hi.”

Romano realized he was still holding Spain in his arms. Spain was a heavy fuck. “Oof!” he said, as he fell to the ground. “Get the hell off me, and greet me properly, you idiot.”

“I love you too!” Spain crowed. He knew Romano _had_ to love him, because not only had the curse been lifted, but those three police ladies were really muddy, at this point, and also pretty… athletic… and Romano wasn’t looking at their heaving bosoms or anything. Spain appreciated that, because travelling around the world during the day as a turtle and during the night as a man wasn’t very much fun. It was a lot of hard work, in fact, and very lonely besides. He didn’t want to lose Romano to mudwrestling police ladies at the last moment. “Let’s go home.”

Romano agreed, and together the two handsome young men walked away into the sunlight.

“What’s this in your pocket?”

“Don’t touch that!”

“A-an orchard? _A lettuce field?!?!?!!_ I _knew_ I wasn’t actually settling when your sisters said no!”

And they lived happily, and healthily, ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this as soon as the man in the story was all ‘guess what I’m a tortoise.’ That says a lot about me. Maybe. What also says a lot about me is how much fucking longer I made this fic than the original story. Whoops.
> 
>  **Rome’s foxiness:** it seemed like the kind of word he would use to describe himself
> 
>  **Turtle:** Spain is a box turtle! Because he needed to be on land a little too much for him to be a sea turtle. Also, box turtles are described as opportunist eaters, and I can’t pass up the chance to make Spain an opportunist anything.
> 
>  **The officiant:** was Iceland.
> 
>  **why does Romano spend most of the story wearing women’s clothing?:** dunno. Because he’s a pretty, pretty princess. Also because he likes them. Skirts can be super comfy in hot weather.
> 
>  **Spain and lettuce:** Spending one half of your life as a turtle’s gotta rub off on the other half somewhere. Also now I want fic/art of Spain cuddling a head of lettuce, and I think I'm the only one who does. **EDIT:** AS MY ICON HERE PROVES THAT IS NOT THE CASE, THANK YOU ZIEB
> 
>  **the cop:** was America. Or Poland.
> 
>  **the diction in this story:** was a bit odd, yeah. The original collection ( _which you should check out if you can!_ ) uses a very plain, matter-of-fact storytelling style, and I know I didn’t capture it completely. But I did try a bit.
> 
>  **Also, because I feel like pimping myself and will only be embarrassed later:** [I made myself a twitter](http://twitter.com/counterheist). Follow me. Chat with me. Confuse me, it's all good.


End file.
